


The Smashed Stradivarius

by Sunnyrea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a woman arrives at 221B Baker Street about the destruction of her Stradivarius violin, Sherlock and John are on the case to find the culprit but will the path lead to murder? (An adventure case with a bit of smush, just how the episodes should be!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smashed Stradivarius

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thalialunacy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/gifts).



> Most of the details about the London Symphony Orchestra are totally false and worked for the purposes of this fic. The conductor, players, and concert choices are all original and for the intent of the story line. The London Symphony in fact is quite fabulous!
> 
> I also want to say thank you to my dear Jessica for being the John Watson spring board for the starting ideas of this fic, without you I may have drowned at the beginning. And to my darling Thalia, I hope you enjoy your birthday present!

The case begins with a knock on their door. At first John doesn’t even notice it, typing on his blog about the recent case of ‘the missing tea because Sherlock is a wanker who can’t go shopping.’ Then another knock and John hears Mrs. Hudson open the door, delivery perhaps, and please let it not be any human remains for Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson calls.

Behind his book, Sherlock makes no move to get up. John stares at Sherlock, waits two beats then, with a sigh, stands up. He walks down the stairs and slides up beside Mrs. Hudson with a smile. She shakes her head at him, giving a ‘husbands’ look, and he resists rolling his eyes. John turns to the short, brown haired woman in the doorway.

“Yes?”

She cocks her head. “You’re Sherlock Holmes?”

John shakes his head. “No, I’m his…” John fishes for a word in his head. “Flat mate.”

She stares at him for a moment clearly picking a different word for herself. John breathes slowly and waits. She clears her throat.

“I’m Leila Waters.” She holds out her hand to shake which John takes. “I have a case for him.”

“Ah, right, yeah.” John bites his lip. He really does not want to subject this woman to Sherlock if he’s just going to belittle her and pass the case off. “Give me one second.”

John jogs half way back up the stairs. “Sherlock, there’s a woman here who –”

“Not interested,” Sherlock calls.

“We don’t even know what her ca –”

“Can’t be too urgent if she hasn’t chased you up the stairs, pass.”

John sighs and walks back down. Leila looks at him as he returns to the doorway and waits. John clears his throat. “Well, um, Ms. Waters, what exactly is the case?”

“It’s about my Stradivarius. It was destroyed.”

John frowns. “Your Stradivarius?”

“Yes. The police think I’m mad, say it was just an accident but –”

Suddenly Sherlock appears beside John in the doorway making the two of them jump in surprise.

Sherlock smiles slowly at Leila. “Did you say Stradivarius?”

\-----------------

As it turns out, Leila Waters is set to become the new principal conductor of the London Symphony, prior to which she was a well traveled and acclaimed violin soloist. Conducting, her secondary career, took front seat after a family illness required her to remain close to home, thus the need for a permanent London job.

“So, after Scotland for a short period, some conducting in Paris, I finally secured the London position.” Leila smiles. “Set to take over in a month after they finish their last concert with the present maestro.”

Inside Leila’s frankly huge flat, Sherlock scampers around with his small magnifying glass out peeking under and over everything. The remains of Leila’s Stradivarius violin sit on a towel on the high counter separating her kitchen from the main living area of her flat.

“I phoned the police and they decided it probably just broke falling from the chair which is impossible but they didn’t belie –”

“Where did you find it originally?” Sherlock interrupts as he circles the counter looking over the violin parts from every angle.

“Um.” Leila turns in a circle then steps over to the left toward her fire place and points. “Just here on the floor.”

Sherlock jerks his head up, strides over and stoops over the spot.

“This was three days ago. I’ve had people interested in buying the violin before, many offers, a few a bit threatening about it even. Could it be one of them, maybe?”

When Sherlock does not respond, Leila opens her mouth then closes it. She glances at John and he shakes his head then waves a hand.

“He always does this.”

“So, uh…” She looks at Sherlock but he keeps examining the floor so she turns to John again. “I don’t usually have my Stradivarius at the flat. I have three other violins.” She points to the cases lined up on the opposite side of the room away from the fireplace, a chair, music stand and small cabinet beside them. “I use those for practice or general concerts. But I had it here for a few days because of a last solo project before I start at the symphony and –”

Sherlock suddenly jumps up from the floor and rushes past them to the violins. He tips each back one by one, perusing the surfaces.

“Hey, wait!” Leila snaps, but Sherlock is already moving away from the violins again.

He kneels low, back in front of the fireplace, turns the stand holding the black fire tongs around once. Leila and John glance at each other then back to Sherlock. Sherlock stands and walks backwards away from the fireplace, hands up, pointing behind himself to the violins then to his right in the direction of the door.

“What are you –“

“You were saying about having your violin here?” Sherlock cuts Leila off as he continues to walk backward, John side stepping out of the way.

She clears her throat. “Um, yes, I… ”

Sherlock walks backwards over the carpet, curving away from the windows which wall the one side of the room and around one couch then up onto a low coffee table. He tilts his head, steps down and around the other couch catty cornered to the table until his back hits the blue wall just beside the violin corner.

“You were saying,” John urges Leila.

Leila stares at Sherlock. “I went out for five minutes to pick up a package and when I came back it was in pieces.”

“And nothing else was missing or stolen or broken?” John asks.

Sherlock cocks his head at the fireplace, slides down the wall so he’s crouching, glances at the violins beside him and shifts up again.

Leila blinks and turns her eyes to John. “No.”

“The best way to hurt you,” Sherlock mutters.

Leila clears her throat and her eyes appear slightly teary. “Yes.”

John holds up a hand and waves it at the broken instrument on the counter. “But why, I mean, it’s just a violin?”

Sherlock and Leila both whip their heads around in an instant and snap, “Just a violin!?”

John leans away at the force of their combined yell and puts up his hands in concession. “Yes, okay, very important violin, sorry.”

Sherlock all but leaps over to John, pressing him back toward the counter so he can point directly to the broken violin.

“It is possibly the very best instrument one could own, very old, rare, the most amazing sound an instrument can make in the right hands, and worth millions of pounds.” He pauses, picks up the bridge of the violin and holds it in front of John’s nose. “I think perhaps you do not grasp the symbol of the Stradivarius violin, John.”

John clears his throat slowly. “I think perhaps you could step back a bit?”

Sherlock looks down at the space, or lack there of, between them. John feels suddenly very hot. Both stand frozen for two beats then Sherlock looks away and steps back, putting the broken bridge down. John breathes again.

Behind them Leila clears her throat. “So?”

Sherlock turns in place. “Well, obviously someone does not want you to become the conductor of the symphony. Who knows about the change already?”

“Wait, what?” John says.

“I…. um… you think that’s why my….”

“Yes, of course, it hasn’t been announced to the public yet has it? So, insider then.”

“Wait, wait, Sherlock, how do you know this is connected to the symphony?”

Leila shrugs. “As far as I am aware there isn’t any opposition to me. I am more worried that this could even be my ex-husband, spiteful guy.” She turns to John. “He never liked my notoriety, felt threatened, men are always –“

“No.” Sherlock cuts her off. “Obviously someone at the symphony does not want you in your new appointment so they destroyed your priceless violin to scare you off.”

“But she’s had people want her violin before, could have been one of them even.”

Leila nods. “They are very sought after, of course.”

Sherlock stares at them both. “Dear god, it’s a wonder criminals are caught at all these days. Of course, it’s about the symphony!”

“Go on then, Sherlock,” John waves a hand, “impress us.”

Sherlock smirks once and begins tracing a path around the apartment as he talks. “Person enters the flat, signs where the door has been forced open, marks against the wall where someone leaned – black line in the paint probably made by a watch – stood here, saw the violins.”

Sherlock leans on the wall then steps over to the violins. “Now, any random intruder would not know which violin had the most value; He would have to guess, try them all. The other violins are untouched, no marks on them of abuse. So, the individual went straight for the Stradivarius – already knew it was here.”

Sherlock steps over to Leila, circling slowly around her. “One of your many wanting buyers? Well, certainly would not destroy it just out of anger that you wouldn’t sell it since they would want it for themselves and appreciate the value.” He leans closer, invades her personal space. “Now, vengeful husband? He wouldn’t break it, he’d steal it, try to ransom it back to you. People who know us want us to know they are the ones causing the pain.”

Leila’s mouth drops open and she makes a strangled gasping noise but Sherlock keeps on, stepping back. “So, this a stranger but someone who knows violins, knows which one to choose, knows its value but does not steal it.”

Sherlock jumps over the table back to the fireplace. “What do we have but the perfect violin murder weapon?” Sherlock points to the fire poker. “Slivers of wood still stuck to the end from where it jabbed the violin, signs where it’s been recently removed from the stand.” Sherlock points to the counter where the pieces lie. “Jagged breaks, look like stab marks and here prime location for you to notice it as soon as you get in.”

Sherlock waves his hands at the floor. “So, presenting the act in such a way to inspire fear. This was someone who knows just who you are and that you owned such a valuable instrument and that you had it home at your flat because of your last solo. What reason would someone want to scare you and do it in such a way directly connected to your musical career? Trying to keep you from becoming the new maestro.”

John laughs. “Fantastic.”

Leila blinks at him. “Oh my god.”

“Simple,” Sherlock replies with a shrug.

John shakes his head and grins. Suddenly Leila’s mail on the counter beside the broken violin catches John’s eye, a white plain card on top with no envelope.

“I think I’ve found something else,” John says picking up the card.

Sherlock and Leila turn to him. He opens the card and all three can read the large black letters inside: _If you do not wish to end up like your Stradivarius quit your new position now._

\----------------

Forty-five minutes after Sherlock grabs John by the back of his coat and drags him from Leila’s flat, the two of them peek in the entrance to the first mezzanine of the Barbican Centre concert hall. On the stage the London Symphony Orchestra rehearses, stopping every so often for notes and the occasional what must be jokes? John can barely hear at their distance though Sherlock keeps chuckling.

Sherlock steps through the door and slips behind the back row of seats, poking his head over the edge of one to watch. John stands in the doorway and rolls his eyes.

“John, do get down here.”

“Do I have to?”

Sherlock tugs John's ankle hard and he stumbles, falling down beside Sherlock. John barely avoids hitting his head on a seat and Sherlock clamps a hand over his mouth before he can groan in pain. Sherlock smiles once down at John then removes his hand.

John stares up at him. “Ow.”

“Hardly your worst injury, John,” Sherlock says quietly then turns back to the orchestra.

John sighs and sits up, crossing his legs. “So, I assume you already have picked out the violin murderer. Will you have solved it by tea?”

“Hmm… the orchestra has been quite disappointing for a number of years it’s no wonder they want new blood, always playing Mozart over and over, the same sorts of pieces beneath their par.” Sherlock tuts, obviously off in Sherlock analyzing land now. “And their flautist, Ms. Melody Hardgrave, is planning on quitting regardless.”

“How can you te –”

“Also, the bassist Thomas Bauer is having an affair with the new viola player, Brett Maxwell. Should have better taste.”

“I don’t want to know how you can tell tha –”

“The concert master Jason Theed is still ignoring the dynamics when he plays, one would think he didn’t read Italian. How did he get his job? Shameful.”

“Sherlock, enough gossip, I know you’ve picked someone out.”

“Hmm… they could certainly use some new timpani. No budget for percussion instruments this season?”

“Sherlock.”

“Matthew Mclarry.” Sherlock turns his head and smiles. “The conductor.”

John cranes his head over the seat to watch the conductor - a somewhat portly man with thinning blond hair - sweep his hands up then down and out. He looks back at Sherlock. “So?”

“Well, I think even you can deduce the one who would be most displeased by the introduction of a new conductor to the symphony.” Sherlock scoots back on his knees then slips up and out the door.

John flips around and scrambles after Sherlock. “Wait, what, that’s it?”

Sherlock snorts and trots down the stairs. “Oh, of course not,” he glances over his shoulder at John, “what did you see?”

“I saw a conductor rehearsing.” Sherlock stops two steps below and stares at John incredulously. John shakes his head. “I’m not going to bother extrapolating, you go right ahead.”

Sherlock purses his lips and turns back down the stairs. “His posture is stiff but not from weariness, more tense in the shoulders as if waiting for something; his conducting is sloppy, beats off in a way the orchestra clearly finds different from the number of times they’ve stopped and restarted. He also would have been the first to know, the one with best motive.” Sherlock turns around at the bottom step so John almost runs into him and has to latch onto Sherlock’s shoulders to stop his momentum. Sherlock smirks. “Certainly the most likely candidate to check out.”

“I think this is the part where you want to break into some locked room, isn’t it?”

Sherlock puts his hands over John’s and picks them up off his shoulders. “Definitely.”

Sherlock strides over the wood floor, slipping through side doors clearly only for performers, until they come to a hall with two doors on each side which are obviously offices. Sherlock drums his fingers along the wall until he gets to the second door on the right, twists the knob and frowns when it opens out easily.

“No breaking in?”

Sherlock hums and shakes his head. “Locked offices always mean better things to hide. Shame.”

They step into the office, Sherlock pulling the shade over the window in the door down after he closes it, then immediately walks over to the computer on the desk. John stands by the door taking the room in. A desk, now with Sherlock in the chair, sits to the left of the door covered with stacks of papers and music scores. The walls are decorated with old posters for orchestra performances as well numerous framed and signed photos of guest performers. To his right stand three tall cabinets of the kind which usually hold instruments, one large door each and light wood. Straight back is a book shelf and a battered filing cabinet beside a small closet with a black door. When John walks toward the cabinet, closer inspection reveals drawers for performer information as well as past season’s scores. John opens a few of the drawers but nothing jumps out as ‘threatening.’

“Lovely e-mail chain,” Sherlock mutters in that way which sounds like it’s to himself but really means he wants John to ask.

John turns around and bites. “About?”

Sherlock’s eyes peek over the edge of the monitor. “Mr. Mclarry did quite a lot of e-mailing to the LSO president as well as donors to plead his case.” Sherlock tsks. “And they call him boring, unimaginative, and I believe ‘lame duck.’”

Sherlock looks rather pleased so John pushes further. “Threats?”

The other man smiles then chuckles. “Oh, in fact he did, all the way to the head of the Barbican Centre with some empty talk about blackmail and the City of London Corporation. Not so successful it seems.”

John’s eyes coast over the desk, books, five copies of ‘The Magic Flute’ and then he stops.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock glances up from the computer, his fingers still typing. “Hmm?”

John points at the cork board on the wall at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock cocks his head and reaches out to pull at the barely exposed corner of a white card. He slips it out from behind the board and flips it open, eyebrows rising.

“My, my. ‘Remember what I said.’” Sherlock flips to the back then again to the front before putting the card down for John to pick up. “Less than creative threats he’s coming up with now.”

“To send to Leila, you think?”

Sherlock pulls his eyes up to John slowly and gives him a withering look. “Or perhaps his mother needs a reminder that her son loves him.”

John huffs. “Cute.” And he drops the card back onto the desk. “What else do we need to find? I’d call that pretty incriminating.”

“Hmm.”

“We need more?”

Sherlock clicks the mouse. “It’s thin and we don’t yet know his location on the night in question. Ah!” Sherlock gasps suddenly and grabs up a piece of paper from under the mouse pad.

“What?” John looks around as if someone is watching then hisses quieter. “What?”

Sherlock flips the flyer around. “They are having a gala to benefit the symphony specifically! We could –”

Abruptly he stops talking and jerks his head toward the door. They both freeze, listening – foot steps out in the hall. Suddenly Sherlock jumps up and grabs John by the arm. He pulls John around the desk, opens the door to the small closet, shoves over a stack of old programs and yanks them both inside.

“Bad decision,” John groans when Sherlock’s chin knocks into his head as the door closes.

“Shh!” Sherlock insists, putting three fingers against John’s lips.

They hear the door to the office open then shut. Outside their closet the chair moves, papers shuffle. Someone is looking for something.

John glances up at Sherlock; he has his head inclined slightly to the side listening. John squeezes his arm up past a pile of black folders beside him and takes Sherlock’s fingers off his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes switch down to John. John makes a face; obviously he’s aware to be quiet now. Sherlock returns his attention to the closed door as they hear something fall out in the office. Shoes click and they hear furious typing.

John shifts against the wall, trying to get whatever is stabbing him in the back to move. The closet is barely large enough to hold the two of them, Sherlock flush against his chest and precarious piles of old advertizing and concert materials surrounding them. It already feels stuffy, claustrophobic, and hot. John stares at Sherlock’s chest and once again he remembers how damn short he is.

Slowly John notices Sherlock’s fingers curling around his hand. John looks up but Sherlock does not seem to notice, unconscious action on his part. John’s lips quirk. Funnily he has no desire to let go, quite the opposite. Something about it feels strangely right.

Sherlock shifts slightly, moving his shoulder off the door, and the papers beside them start to slide. John flings out his free hand to catch them, pulling the other out of Sherlock’s fingers to slam against Sherlock’s chest so he doesn’t fall. Sherlock groans very quietly.

John mouths, ‘sorry’ in the faint darkness.

Sherlock shakes his head and bites his lip once. John realizes he’s also stomped on Sherlock’s foot.

“Oh!” John says out loud and Sherlock glares. John digs his fingers into Sherlock’s shirt to remain upright and forces himself still.

They both listen intently but the typing outside has stopped, full silence and John’s heart rate sky rockets, until the chair shifts again and whom ever is outside the door drops books to the floor. John breathes out slowly. He feels Sherlock’s heart beat under his hand, steady. Sherlock touches John’s hand on his chest and it’s like a jolt because Sherlock’s fingers are so cool. He turns slightly and now they’re just staring at each other. For a moment John forgets they’re stuck in a closet, forgets they’re on a case, forgets everything and all he thinks is how beautiful Sherlock appears in the semi-darkness.

Then the outside door to the office slams and they both jump. The stack of papers John tried to save tumbles out of his hold into a mess at their feet. The stack of music folders gives way falling on top of John and Sherlock swings open the door. They both jump out and quickly shut the closet door behind them before the mess can escape into the office. They stand still side by side with their hands flat on the door. John’s heart pounds but not just from the rush of escaping the closet.

Sherlock moves first and turns back to the office. “Curious.”

John turns as well to see the desk shifted around, papers moved, computer powered off. Someone had been looking for something in particular.

Then they speak at the same time, “the note is gone.”

“Sending to Leila?” John guesses.

Sherlock clears his throat and does not look at John.

“Um… Sherlock, are you all ri –”

Before John can complete his sentence Sherlock gasps and snatches up the benefit flyer from the desk.

“Perfect!” Sherlock cries and runs out the door.

John stares at the spot where Sherlock once stood – moment lost. John decides to forget about the closet because he just will not wrap his mind around thinking Sherlock beautiful right now. Blinking, John realizes he should probably chase after Sherlock. However, by the time he moves and leaves the office Sherlock is nowhere in sight.

John sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “Not again.”

\----------------

When it becomes quite clear Sherlock has no intention of returning to fetch John, he finds his way back to the flat on his own. John hopes Sherlock’s not doing something too reckless but it is only ten past two at this point so with luck no stalking or shooting or rooting through garbage. But then again what difference does cover of darkness really make to Sherlock?

“Back already?” Mrs. Hudson asks as John lumbers up the stairs past her. “Sherlock off on one of his cases again?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” John groans quietly.

“Always choosing work over home life, isn’t he?”

John stops at the top of the stairs and stares back at her. Mrs. Hudson just gives him a little smile and rounds the corner back toward her flat. John blinks and shakes his head, climbing the stairs all the way to his room, until he falls face first onto his bed. He peeks at his phone where he’d forgotten it on the night stand. Reaching out, chin still crunched on the covers, he checks his messages – four from Sarah.

“Shit,” John groans. He’d forgotten about work. “Amazing she doesn’t fire me….”

John lets his face fall back into the covers. He really has a skewed sense of reality these days. Damn you, Sherlock Holmes.

“John!”

John jolts up in surprise at the sound of his name. He blinks, groggy, eyes blurred and he realizes he’s still lying on his bed. He sits up half way, checks the clock and sees its now close to five.

“Oh god….” John wipes a hand over his face, no doubt lines on it from the covers.

“John!” Sherlock calls again.

“What?”

“Hurry, places to be!”

John rolls over. “Since when?”

He jumps to his feet and trots down the stairs then into the living room. Sherlock stands in the middle of the room dressed in a formal suit – no, not a suit, a tuxedo; tails, waistcoat, white bowtie – a full on tuxedo.

John notices very acutely his breathing stops for ten seconds.

“What are you wearing?” John croaks out.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “A tuxedo.”

“Yes, but… Why?”

“The Symphony Benefit, of course.” Sherlock points to the flyer he’d stolen from Matthew’s office sitting on the table. “You do recall?”

“Uh huh…”

“I am now the guest performer and I have another ticket.” Sherlock holds up a formal looking invitation with a silver border. He shifts his fingers so the second slides out to the side. “Put on a tuxedo.”

“You are now the guest performer….”

“Put on a tux,” Sherlock repeats.

“As if I would have more than one,” John deadpans.

Sherlock cocks his head. “You must have something.”

“I have my brown sui–”

“Oh, horrid.”

“Well, it’s what I have!” John snaps. “Go alone if you’re so –”

“No.” Sherlock cuts John off and brushes past him up the stairs toward John’s room.

John spins and chases after Sherlock. “Hey, Sherlock, wait!”

When John catches up, Sherlock is already rifling through John’s closet. He pulls out a suit jacket then throws it to the floor behind him with a disgusted face.

“Hey, don’t –”

He throws another followed by a blue shirt.

“Stop that.”

Sherlock pulls his head out of the closet and shakes it at John. “You have a shameful lack of professional and formal wear, John.”

John puts a hand over his eyes. “There is nothing wrong with sweaters.”

“Ah ha! Perfect.”

John peeks through his fingers. Sherlock holds his dress uniform, clear plastic dry cleaners bag still covering it.

John shakes his head and drops his hand. “No.”

“It is the only formal thing you own.”

“It’s for military affairs!”

“And?”

“And I – I can’t wear it to this.” Sherlock gives John a look and John huffs. “No. It’s not… I…”

Sherlock tilts his head. “Really John, we both know military dress uniform is not reserved only for military functions, you have no tux, not even a passable suit, and I need you to come.” He pauses. “I am certain you look splendid in it.”

Sherlock extends his arm holding the uniform toward John. John just stares. Sherlock jiggles the uniform at him.

John sighs and snatches it from Sherlock. “Fine.”

When John comes down the stairs in his uniform, first time in a while but it still fits, Sherlock stares at him. John stands waiting for Sherlock to do something but he stands with his lips pressed carefully together like he’s trying to stop himself from speaking.

John looks down at himself then back up. “What? Should I put on something else?”

Sherlock clears his throat quietly. “No. It’s… fine.”

“What then?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock passes John and heads down the stairs, picking up his violin from the top step as he goes. “Shall we?”

\---------------

They arrive at the benefit among a flurry of people, John catching numerous eyes as they walk in; military red accents tend to turn heads especially among a sea of tuxedoes. Sherlock passes off their tickets then touches John’s arm and steers them a path through the people.

“So, why are we –” John starts then cuts himself off as Matthew Mclarry strides toward them.

“Mr. Holmes.” He holds out his hand to shake Sherlock’s. “A pleasure and a surprise, very last minute change.” He clears his throat with an undisguised tone of disapproval. “But my supervisors assure me you are up to the task.”

Sherlock smiles, pleasing in a way he usually reserves for confusing grieving widows and crime scene witnesses “Ah, but who does not enjoy a bit of a surprise?” Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “Live in the moment?”

“Of course,” Matthew replies obviously thinking the exact opposite.

“May I introduce Dr. Watson,” Sherlock gestures to John, “my –”

“Friend,” John supplies.

“Partner,” Sherlock finishes.

They glace at each other briefly then back to Mclarry. He flicks his eyes between them once then nods to John. Yet another person confused by the terrible twosome of Sherlock and John.

Matthew clears his throat. “I must confess Mr. Holmes I have not been informed what you intend to play this evening.”

Sherlock chuckles and swivels the end of his violin case left then right. “Something romantic period or 20th century I should think.” Matthew’s jaw tightens perceivably. “Perhaps it should remain a surprise?” Sherlock finishes.

“Well.” Matthew stands still, hands clenching at his sides then extends a hand toward the stage.

Sherlock turns to John so his back is to the maestro. “Not very pleased?”

“Don’t let him trip you off the stage,” John replies low.

“Keep an eye down here.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Sherlock pauses a moment longer, drawing John’s eyes up. Sherlock leans slightly closer, a thoughtful look to his face.

“You called me ‘friend.’”

John blinks twice and smiles. “Surprise.”

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock slowly raises both eyebrows then turns back to Matthew, following the man away toward the small stage. John casually walks among the tables and mingling people; he notices Leila at the front table just beside the stage. After about ten minutes the master of ceremonies comes to the stage, some people take seats while most simply turn where they stand. The man gives a speech about changes within the symphony, the need for donor support. John keeps his eyes on the crowd, watching Leila, notices Matthew sitting on the small dais.

Then, “…and our guest soloist for the evening, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Polite applause leads Sherlock on, who bows once before moving right into his performance, violin up and bow on strings. The moment he begins to play John feels as if he has never heard Sherlock play before in his life.

Sherlock plays with eyes open, small smile on this face, and the bow moving like a pure extension of his body, down and up, fast and slow as if he does not need to think about what he plays. The music sounds unfamiliar, a modern turn to classical music with occasionally dissonant sound even John’s untrained ears can sense, like Sherlock’s taken a romantic era piece – Beethoven maybe – and turned it on it’s head by adding something radical every fifth measure. The piece sounds strange but the skill is obvious, the talent undeniable, and despite the oddities is absolutely amazing.

Behind Sherlock, John sees Matthew controlling his features into a tight neutral expression, the only tell the way his eyebrows are higher than they should be. At her table Leila’s mouth hangs open, either shocked by her hired detective’s appearance or his skill at the violin, most likely both. Looking back to Sherlock, John sees Sherlock’s eyes moving every so often in a sweep over the crowd – gathering data, always analyzing. John realizes with a metal smack to the head, Sherlock is making the piece up as he goes along.

John sighs, a grin spread across his face. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Suddenly Sherlock bows low, slides a long arpeggio up the violin and ends with a flip of his hair and a dramatic squeak of the strings. He lowers his bowing arm and the audience claps loud and long, a few cheers of bravo from the back. Sherlock smiles, his eyes catching John, and bows again.

“Thank you very much.” The host holds an arm out toward Sherlock and he bows once more before walking off stage, act complete.

The crowd claps for a minute longer before the master of ceremonies interjects some more words about the future of the symphony then invites everyone to enjoy the night. The members of the head table clear off and the guests begin to mingle again around the open areas. Recorded music comes on while conversation and dancing start to take over. John cranes his neck trying to find Sherlock among the bustle until a hand touches his shoulder. John turns to see Sherlock beside him, violin gone.

“That was amazing,” John says, still slightly breathless with awe.

Sherlock smiles in that ‘well, of course’ way he often does. “I had ample opportunity to observe the guests as well. Mclarry is there now,” he inclines his head, “speaking to our new maestro and the concert master.”

“Jason Theed?”

“Quite.”

John peers through the crowd, spotting the trio in the distance. “I suppose you want to check them out?”

John looks back to Sherlock to see the other holding out his hand. John furrows his brow and glances down at Sherlock’s hand held out toward him. Sherlock tilts his head, still waiting.

John shakes his head. “What?”

“We need to blend in to start.”

John narrows his eyes in confusion then turns to the dance floor to their right, what must be a hundred people now twirling around slowly to the non-descript dance music. He whips his head back around to Sherlock.

“What? No!”

“Do keep your voice down, John.” Sherlock smiles. “Mclarry is near the middle of the floor, there is no other way to get close to him.”

“Now?” John squeaks.

Sherlock sighs. “Of course now.” He extends his hand further toward John with an imploring raise of his eyebrows.

“But we… we can’t…” John hisses in a whisper.

Sherlock breathes in slowly through his nose. “John, we arrived together. It is not a leap. At this point we are gathering more looks by simply standing here.” Sherlock seems to consider then adds, “please.”

John closes his eyes once, breathes out, then opens them and puts his hand in Sherlock’s.

Sherlock pulls John to him, hand on John’s waist, and turns them into the crowd. A small part of John had hoped perhaps Sherlock didn’t actually know how to dance but the hope is dashed instantly when Sherlock swivels them around, in and out through other couples, with practiced ease. John has never been the one following in a dance, never done that much formal dancing at all, but Sherlock’s hands hold tight and move John every place he needs to go. They turn left, right, through the people gracefully and actually rather enjoyably, moving along with the music as dancing should be. It is honestly enchanting.

“I thought you wanted us to blend in,” John says low, “this isn’t blending in.”

Sherlock laughs back in his throat. “Never doubt the ability of people to avoid looking at whatever either makes them nervous or they find too interesting. We are quite blended.”

John shakes his head, glancing around once then back to Sherlock. “Your ‘hiding in plain sight’ method, then?”

“Sometimes the best cover is the mask everyone sees.” Sherlock nods a head at the people around them. “Now we are just the guest performer and the military man who came with him.”

John raises an eyebrow and decides to skip the bother of commenting on his usual secondary role. Suddenly, Sherlock jerks them left, John nearly trips, a woman flashes him a grin and then they dance only a couple meters away from their intended quarry.

“…and my plans I wouldn’t call ‘incredible,’ just a bit modernizing.” Leila speaks to Jason, the first chair violinist.

He grumbles. “Things have been perfectly fine. I do not see the need to rile up –”

“Rile up? That is not what –”

Matthew clears his throat. “I think what Maestro Waters –”

Sherlock turns them again, cutting off John’s line of hearing and he suddenly dips John to a swell in the music. John gasps, fingers clenching tight in surprise, and he just knows he’s going to fall. Then Sherlock pulls them up again, hand coasting down and up John’s back so anyone else would think it was an affectionate gesture. John knows now someone else’s keys hide in his back pocket.

“Sherlock…” John hisses.

Sherlock gives John an elaborately innocent look. John purses his lips and mouths ‘what are you doing?’ Sherlock only raises his eyebrows.

John hears Leila’s voice again. “You cannot judge my actions before…”

“We know your plans, Ms. Waters, you are progress –” Matthew starts then Jason butts in.

“Why bring you on if you’re going to put the whole symphony on the chopping block?”

Leila laughs and whispers only slightly. “Worried you won’t make the cut?”

“So, you are planning cuts?” Matthew makes a noncommittal noise. “Nice to know I won’t be alone in leaving, I suppose.”

Then they turn again, Sherlock bumping into Matthew causing all three to stumble. Sherlock’s hand touches Matthew’s jacket so quickly it looks just like he’s trying to regain his balance but his other hand still on John’s waist feels steady.

“Oh my!” Sherlock’s voice dips into a tone of deference and shock which sounds completely foreign to knowing ears. “Are you all right? I am so sorry!”

Matthew clears his throat and smiles thinly. “I am fine, no trouble.”

Sherlock smiles wide, hand on his chest. “Completely my fault, Maestro, quite clumsy.” He flashes eyes at John. “Must have gotten carried away.”

Behind Matthew, Leila gives John a look of utter confusion. John forces himself to not make the same expression back and plasters a benign smile to his features. John notices beside the other two, Jason giving Sherlock the sort of glare which could peel paint. Jason probably found himself kicked from the soloist position when Sherlock bargained his way in last minute.

“Ah!” Sherlock says suddenly just as the trio begins to turn back to their conversation, reaching toward the floor then rising up again. “Did you drop this?”

Matthew turns back to see Sherlock holding up a brown wallet. Matthew touches the top of his jacket and his mouth gapes slightly.

“I… thank you.”

Sherlock smiles again and hands it back. “Musn’t lose that.”

Leila’s brow furrows and John sees her dying to ask. Sherlock winks at them then turns back to John, taking his hand and leading off the dance again, slowly turning further and further away though his eyes stay fixed on the trio’s point.

“Did you pick pocket his wallet too?”

Sherlock keeps looking over John’s shoulder and turns them right. “I returned it, as you saw.”

“After pick pocketing it.”

Sherlock’s lip quirks but he neither confirms nor denies. John sighs and glances around them, less eyes watching than he expected; Sherlock right once again. Sherlock turns them with the music, curving John this way and that, still the expert dancer who never steps on John’s toes.

John finds himself in fact enjoying dancing with Sherlock.

The music slows slightly then and Sherlock’s hands change, not anything very significant but his fingers clench tighter, his arm actually holds John not just leads and John looks up to see Sherlock staring at him. He knows he should ask ‘what’s wrong?’ or something logical but his throat seems to have closed. John can only stare back into Sherlock’s eyes, hypnotized, romance novel pools which say ‘now.’

Sherlock’s voice is soft when he speaks. “John… I…”

John takes his hand off Sherlock’s arm and pulls Sherlock’s face to his and kisses him.

John’s mind instantly flashes with, ‘oh god, what have I done’ but he doesn’t stop and it’s not until now that he's actually kissing Sherlock that John realizes how long he's wanted to, really really wanted to. Sherlock stills, soft intake of air, of surprise, and then he pulls John closer, tighter, so there’s no space between them. He kisses John back. John’s hand slips down from Sherlock’s cheek to rest on his neck, he kisses harder and before where he’d been worried about the dance, now he notices nothing but the points where they touch.

(Maybe what everyone has always seen in them really _has_ always been there).

When they break apart, still close together, Sherlock’s lip quirks. “Adding to our cover?”

John breathes slow and feels Sherlock breathing back in time. “No.”

They’ve stopped dancing, stuck in place, and now John does not care about the case, about anything else at all. Then the music changes, Sherlock’s hands ease and he straightens slowly; a break in the spell.

“Are you thirsty?” Sherlock asks.

“Am I… thirsty?”

“Yes, me too.” Sherlock nods his head definitively. “Shall we get something?”

Sherlock extends one arm toward the side of the room and firmly pushes John forward by the small of his back. John feels a bit like a chess piece.

At the bar John orders them each a glass of wine, one eye firmly fixed on Sherlock for reaction signs, while Sherlock’s eyes stay intent on the dance floor behind them. Once the server hands John their wine Sherlock latches onto John’s elbow, steering them through the tables to a back corner.

“Sherlock, you can stop –”

Sherlock stops moving in time with John’s word then turns John around, pulling him close to kiss him again. John breathes through his nose in surprise, hands still occupied with wine and stops thinking, eyes closing. When Sherlock moves back John opens his eyes slowly to see Sherlock smiling at him.

“What?”

Sherlock holds up between them, in front of John’s nose, what appears to be a driver’s license. Despite the close distance John reads: ‘Matthew John Mclarry’ beside a picture of the man and, underneath the name, his address.

John peers back over the card and Sherlock grins. “Care for a break from the festivities?”

\------------

Once the two of them step out of the cab, Sherlock spins John around and yanks the keys from his back pocket.

“Watch it!” John grumbles. “I’d rather not have a hole in these trousers, dress uniform, remember?”

“I have yet to miss that fact, John.” John clears his throat with embarrassment and Sherlock winks. “My dashing army doctor.”

John’s mouth drops open and Sherlock grins as he turns to the front door, unlocking it quickly. They climb three flights up to Matthew’s door. Sherlock stares at the door for a moment, touches two fingers to the metal numbers in the center.

“Don’t tell me, number code hidden in the card from Leila’s flat?”

Sherlock stills and turns his head slowly toward John. “Actually…”

John perks up. “What, really?”

“No.”

John frowns as Sherlock opens the door and Sherlock continues, “His number is wrong on his mailbox downstairs.”

“Of course you’d notice that.”

“Of course.”

Inside the flat they find a minor mess of papers over every surface – large musical scores, single pages of sheet music, leafs of paper with half written compositions. The bookshelves hold large amount of musical texts, theory books, biographies of prominent composers and performers.

Sherlock makes a ‘tch’ noise, finger on a thin book. “Berlioz.”

John looks through papers on the desk – applications, insurance forms, union flyers, personal letter from his sister, more applications, resumes with writing in the margins; nothing incriminating. He’s not really thinking about the evidence they need to find though, not at all. John lays his hands flat on the table, drumming them once. He breathes through his nose and stares at the wall.

“So, about this kissing now…” John starts, peeking over his shoulder.

“Yes.” Sherlock pivots to face John and purses his lips. “What do you think?”

John turns all the way around. “What do… what do I think?”

Sherlock nods.

“Well, technically I started it so I think you know what I think. What do you think?”

Sherlock shifts his feet and waves a hand to the side. “I think it’s… nice.”

“Nice?”

“Something new.”

John frowns. “So I’m… something new?” John sighs. “You’re not treating this as an experiment or something are you? Because Sherlock I don’t –“

“John, no,” Sherlock interrupts and steps over to John, touching his arm to stop his words. “No, I… I am not usually in such unexpected situations…” He sighs and smiles. “But you are a handsome man John and… I like you.”

John laughs once because he feels like a teenager for a moment. “Oh, okay. Well, good.”

Sherlock’s wraps his fingers around John’s wrist, tips tracing a circle in John’s palm. He smiles small and almost shy in a way John never sees him look.

“Good,” he says.

Then suddenly Sherlock makes one of his ‘contemplative’ expressions and his gaze shifts just past John. John wrinkles his forehead in confusion. Sherlock crouches slightly and leans to the right, tilting his head at a strange angle so he’s close to having his head touch the window sill, practically hanging off of John’s wrist as he leans.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock points over John’s head with his other hand. “I think we may have found it.”

John follows the line of Sherlock’s finger to the top of the bookcase far over his head. He doesn’t see anything.

“Found what?”

“There is dust all over these books shelves, only a few spots clean where books have been moved occasionally. The top of that book case has no dust along the edge as though someone has been constantly reaching over.”

Sherlock straightens up abruptly then swings around John, drags the chair away from the desk over to the bookcase and steps up on it. The chair rolls back causing Sherlock to grab onto the shelf for balance. John stops the chair rolling all the way with his foot on the bottom and his hands on Sherlock’s legs.

John shakes his head. “Didn’t notice the wheels?”

Sherlock sniffs disdainfully. “Of course I did.”

“Best not to fall at least.”

“That’s why I bring you.”

“And other things, I’d imagine.” John cocks an eyebrow. “Medical degree maybe.”

Sherlock chuckles once, “Perhaps more,” and he reaches up over the edge of the shelf, hands moving searchingly.

Then he stops and pulls his hand away with three manila envelopes between his fingers. Sherlock turns around on the chair shaking it precariously. John latches his fingers onto the back of the chair to secure it in place. Sherlock opens one folder and pulls out what, from the back, appear to be photographs.

“What is it?” John asks.

Sherlock looks over the edge of the photographs and John doesn’t need to see Sherlock’s mouth to know he’s grinning. “Our dear Matthew Mclarry is not the conductor saint one might think.”

Sherlock jumps down and lands so he sits with one leg on each side of the chair. He flips the stack of photos around to show some compromising images of Matthew with a young girl, obviously taken through a window. John reaches out and pulls the photos from Sherlock’s hand, paging through the photos, the last one of Matthew kissing the girl at the door.

“He’s not married though.” John looks down again as Sherlock opens the other two folders. “He can date, so why hide these?”

“I think availability may not be the issue.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows once then looks back at the folders.

“Do you mean she’s…” John peers down at the photo again. “Oh god, how old is she?”

Sherlock smirks. “I doubt an age we’d care to know about.” Then he stops suddenly with a piece of paper from the last folder.

“What?”

Sherlock stands up from the chair and pushes it to the side with his foot. “I believe we have a new development.”

Sherlock turns the paper around for John to see the writing: _Remember, if I go then you’re coming down with me._

The handwriting is the same as the note Leila received.

“Wait, so what does it mean?” John drops the photos in his hand onto the chair. “Who sent these?”

Sherlock stares over John’s head out the window, eyes far away and he grins. “Mclarry did not destroy the Stradivarius.”

¬-------------------

“I don’t get it; we knew it was the conductor.” John waves an arm back at the building as they scamper down the alley. “It had to be.”

“We had a reasonable assumption it was the conductor,” Sherlock corrects. “Obviously, it is not.”

“But it was!”

Sherlock waves a hand in the air and the two of them jump in a cab for the short ride back to the event hall. The two ride in silence as Sherlock gazes out the window, brain whirling as usual except now Sherlock touches John’s hand on the seat, fingers tapping John’s. John keeps looking down but he doesn’t move his hand.

It’s funny how this started now in the middle of a case, so many other things to be worried about, but then again, with Sherlock, it’s hardly surprising at all.

By the time they reach the event hall Sherlock smirks like Anderson was just fired from the force. They jump out of the cab, Sherlock dragging John by the hand and all but throwing money at the cabbie in their wake.

“All right, so what?” John asks.

Sherlock jogs away from the front and down to the side entrance, hand on the door knob.

“Sherlock, you have that look, who is it?”

“Why has the conductor been choosing such simple pieces for his acclaimed orchestra?”

John blinks. “I… what?”

“Someone was blackmailing him, someone was forcing him to do something – that card in his office was not for Leila; it was for him! And what is the only odd thing we know he’s been doing?”

“Choosing simple classical pieces?”

Sherlock swings open the door. “And who would benefit the most; who needs to be the best player in the orchestra and, if he’s not, makes the rest suffer?”

“Sherlock, I played the clarinet for three years in primary school, everyone was terrible.” John slams the door closed behind them. “Just tell me.”

Sherlock points down the hall toward the faint noise of the party. “It fits perfectly and you saw the way he looked, the way he was arguing; he is the one who will suffer with a change of staff.”

John shakes his head. “He… wait, do you…”

Sherlock grins and puts his hands up. “The concert master!”

Suddenly something heavy and sharp hits John in the back of the head. John swings out a hand to try and catch himself on the wall, wobbles and falls to his knees. He vaguely hears Sherlock shout ‘John!’ and stars flood his vision. John puts a hand on the floor, forcing himself not to fall completely over. Everything seems to grow dark, hazy, but John shakes his head, breathes slowly and will not pass out. John coughs, blinks quickly, and tries to clear his vision.

“Sherlock…”

John blinks again and suddenly everything whizzes back into sharp focus as John sees Sherlock on the floor with Jason Theed pinning him there, hands around Sherlock’s neck.

“It’s mine!” Jason growls. “No one is going to take it from me no matter how you may play, Mr. Holmes!”

“John…” Sherlock gasps, struggling to pull Jason off him but the man is heavier than Sherlock, wild in a rage with brown hair breaking free of the gel coating it.

John yanks himself to his feet and grabs Jason by the shoulders. All three of them jolt up, Jason refusing to let go, and Sherlock groans in pain. John grabs at Jason’s hands, avoids an elbow to his jaw.

“You can’t play when you’re dead!” Jason growls, almost ignoring John.

John grabs at his fingers, tries to pry them open.

“Let him go!” John snaps.

He finally heaves Jason back, making them both fall against the wall. John hears Sherlock gasp loudly, sucking in gulps of air and coughing. John flips around, grabs Jason to stop him from any attempt at flight then he suddenly feels Jason grab his ankle.

“No!”

But it’s too late as Jason pulls out John’s well concealed gun (really he had to bring it, John knows what trouble Sherlock always gets them into regardless of the venue).

Sherlock gasps raggedly. “John, he –”

“Gun!” John snaps and jumps up, knocking Jason back as he does so.

John grabs Sherlock’s hand and pulls him to standing. They both turn to Jason on the ground who suddenly cocks the gun and glares at them.

“Run!” Sherlock shouts.

They move just in time to avoid a gunshot to their right forcing them left. They only run a few meters however before they suddenly hit a dead end.

“Shi –”

“Here!” Sherlock pulls John through a door leading to stairs heading down and out into a large basement.

“Oh god, we’re in a James Bond film,” John mutters at the sight of the maze of boxes, cabinets, and musical instruments before them.

“Nonsense, John, you look nothing like Pussy Galore.”

John sputters. “I get to be Bond!”

Sherlock gives John an incredulous look as they slip down a narrow path. “The comparison does not fit regardless. Our villain has no plot to take over the world, only the symphony. Not Bond worthy.”

“Well, if you’d be Bond then I would have to be a Bond girl,” John insists undeterred then suddenly double takes on himself. “Wait…”

Sherlock snorts.

Then they hear the door bang open and Jason shouts. “Bad decision boys; you think I can’t find you?”

Sherlock ‘hmms’ and pulls John by the arm through a stack of boxes. “Does have an inflated sense of confidence though.”

“How is it you know James Bond references anyway?” John whispers. “Not beneath you?”

“Criminals adore James Bond.”

“Mr. Holmes!” Jason calls, closer than expected and they freeze. “I know why you’re here, why you performed tonight.”

“Oh boy…” John mutters.

Jason’s voice shifts away from them. “Do you think I can’t tell?”

“Explain it to us then, Mr. Theed,” Sherlock calls back, throwing his voice into the acoustics of the room and yanking John down underneath something with a heavy fabric cover.

They hear Jason’s feet run then stop. “Why you’re slated to replace me, of course.”

Sherlock and John glance at each other. Sherlock tilts his head with a bemused expression and John holds up two fingers in a ‘close’ gesture.

“But I don’t think that will be happening.” Jason’s feet shift side to side, then he hops up and runs in another direction.

Sherlock hunkers low and peeks under the cloth, tracking Jason’s path. They listen to his foot steps receding in the distance, silence starting to grow. It’s better for him to not be near them with a gun but they also do not really want him to wander off.

John glances up for a moment then stops. “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Are we under a piano?”

“Yes.”

John turns back to Sherlock crouching like a cat near the foot pedals. “You’re not planning on jumping out then banging on the keys to be dramatic, are you?”

Sherlock slowly lifts his head and smiles. “Excellent idea, John.”

“No! No, it isn’t!” Sherlock slides out quickly from under the piano despite John’s protests. “Damn it.”

Sherlock flips up the front of the cover and opens the piano, laying all ten fingers down in a wildly dissonant bastardization of a chord. The sound echoes through the room like a gong.

“Come on, Jason,” Sherlock calls, “do you really think that’s the plan?” He plays up the keyboard, hand over hand. “Do you think they would taunt you like that?”

John pulls himself out from under the piano, ears ringing, and glares at Sherlock just as a gun presses into his neck.

“Yes,” Jason says to Sherlock, “I do.”

John’s eyes widen and he clenches his teeth. People have been pointing guns at him lately more than in the war.

Sherlock freezes, tense set to his jaw, then he slowly lays his hands on top of the piano. “So, Jason, why destroy the Stradivarius? You even sent a letter, seems simpler to start with than such blasphemy?”

Jason narrows his eyes and digs the gun barrel into John’s neck. “Sends a better message, complete destruction.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “No, I don’t think so. Yes, of course you wanted Maestro Waters gone, didn’t want to give up the cushy position you’d blackmailed your way in to, but something about her specifically set you off.”

John feels Jason’s hold falter, confusion.

“Your violin at the symphony, many steps below something as grand as a Stradivarius, tuxedo at least two years old – in need of some attention, and of course there also is simply your lack of talent.”

“What do you…”

“Oh god,” Sherlock frowns, “this is about class. The rich getting richer, something like that, yes? You were just jealous she had everything you wanted and threatened what you’d supposedly worked to get.”

“Like she deserved to shake everything up!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Greed combined with jealousy. Dull.” He sighs heavily and waves a hand at Jason. “And a real musician would never destroy a priceless instrument like a Stradivarius!”

Jason’s hands loosen and the gun tips back as he stares at Sherlock. “You’re not someone brought in to replace me at all, are you?”

Sherlock smirks. “No.”

Then John elbows Jason sharp and hard in the stomach. Jason yelps and falls to the floor. John snatches up the fallen gun then jumps away over to Sherlock’s side.

He pants and looks side long at Sherlock. “Just had to add the last dig, didn’t you?”

Sherlock shrugs a shoulder. “It’s true.” He touches John’s neck where John can feel the imprint of the gun. Sherlock sneers once then drops his hand. “You all right?”

John nods assuredly bumping his hip against Sherlock’s with a smile. “Just like old times.”

On the floor Jason coughs, rolling over up onto all fours. John grips the gun tightly, eyes on Jason. Then suddenly Jason jolts up, flips the cover from the piano and flings it at John and Sherlock. The two duck out to opposite sides, arms up to block the dust and the flying fabric. As it falls, they see Jason running away through the maze.

“Stop!” John shouts.

“Ah, the chase!” Sherlock cries and they both take off after him.

They weave around boxes, narrowly missing knocking over a bass violin case, and burst out into an open area at the other end of the basement. They see the tails of Jason’s tuxedo disappearing through a door.

“Up again,” Sherlock says as they ram into the door and climb the steps.

Back on the first floor they stop in an empty hallway, faint noises of the party still going on far off to their right, and wooden mail boxes lining the wall in front of them.

“There!” John points to their left where a door marked ‘exit’ just closes.

The two turn and race down the hall. Sherlock hits the door first, yanking it open. He runs through the door and right into Jason’s arm, slamming him in the neck so he chokes and tumbles down the stairs.

“Sherlock!” John shouts.

Jason grabs John’s arm as he hits the door, struggling to get the gun from John’s hand. John kicks Jason in the ankle but Jason manages to get leverage on John. Jason heaves him around so John loses his balance and falls off the other side of the steps, Jason yanking the gun away. John falls hard on his back, the wind whooshing out of him.

“Jason, give it up,” Sherlock rasps as he rises to his feet then stops when he sees Jason pointing the gun at him.

“You may have figured it out, Mr. Holmes,” Jason says, cocking the gun, “but you won’t tell anyone.”

“Stop…” John groans, getting up to his knees.

“I don’t think you’re a murderer, Jason.” Sherlock stares up at Jason on the stairs, calm and sure.

Jason shrugs once and smiles. “Let’s see then.”

John stands, trying to stop it but Jason squeezes the trigger in the same moment that Sherlock tries to duck out of the way. He’s not quite fast enough. A bullet hits Sherlock in the shoulder as he moves, throwing him back into the wall.

“Sherlock!” John screams.

Jason sneers and turns the gun toward John. John freezes in place, flashes of a sniper from his memory, and then he hears Lestrade’s voice.

“Drop it now!”

John sees Jason’s expression twitch, eyes widening, and they both turn their heads. Lestrade and four police officers stand at the entrance to the alley way, guns drawn. John hears two more approaching from behind him.

“I said, now!”

Jason drops the gun so it falls off the steps and clatters to the pavement. He holds his hands up and two police officers close in to cuff him. John jolts to life and runs over to Sherlock on the ground.

“Sherlock.” John rolls Sherlock from his side to his back. “Sherlock, say something!”

“Something…” Sherlock groans.

John scoffs a laugh and breathes heavily. “Oh you - god… you…” John kisses Sherlock hard and presses their foreheads together. “You bastard, you…”

Sherlock groans again. “This is rather ironic.”

“What?” John leans back to look at him.

“Both shot in the shoulder now.”

John laughs again and pulls Sherlock’s coat aside to asses the wound, doesn’t look bad, more in the arm than the chest. John presses his hands against the wound, staying the flow of blood. “Never been shot before, eh?”

“Certainly…” Sherlock gasps, sweat beading at his temple, “certainly not.”

Suddenly Lestrade appears beside John. “I’ve called paramedics, two minutes.”

“He’ll be all right as long as we get the bullet out and it bandaged,” John assures Lestrade.

“You’re lucky someone heard the shooting so we got here.”

Sherlock groans again to John. “And it was your gun.”

“You’re welcome,” John replies, touching Sherlock’s face, keeping him focused.

Sherlock laughs then cuts off his laughter with a pained hiss.

Beside John, Lestrade sighs loudly and stands up. “You didn’t think to call us before you were getting shot at?”

Sherlock turns his head up to Lestrade and smiles. “Hard to dial… through all the running.”

John purses his lips so not to laugh and gives Sherlock a look, cocking an eyebrow. Sherlock smiles thinly back.

“Next time I’ll leave you to be shot,” Lestrade grumbles.

Sherlock weakly holds up two fingers. “Twice you mean?”

Lestrade groans and they both smile again as the paramedics arrive to swoop around them.

\---------------

A few days later brings them back to the flat, Sherlock forcing the nurses to release him from the hospital sooner than they would have liked, ‘you will kill me with your banal conversation long before the wound could!’ (Or perhaps just as soon as they liked). John assures everyone he is indeed a doctor and won’t let Sherlock bleed to death through any idiocy. Plus, John can always slip tranquilizers into Sherlock’s tea.

“You know, if it weren’t for the violin you’d have never taken this case,” John says as he hands Sherlock a mug of drug free tea. “Not as complicated as your usual taste.”

Sherlock takes the tea with his uninjured arm and nods. “Unfortunately.”

John sits down in his chair at the table, placing his tea beside his laptop. “Though you did get shot.”

Sherlock snorts. “A highlight.” He shifts in the chair, swings both legs over the edge so he’s sitting sideways. “Did give us a chance to visit the symphony, however.”

“And stalk around backstage.”

“And got you into your uniform, had been curious about that.”

“Yes, well – wait, what?” John’s hand nearly knocks over his tea as he turns around.

Sherlock shrugs and tips his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling, arm carefully propped against a pillow and tea balanced on his knee. “I knew you had one but I’d never see you wear it.”

John smiles slowly and walks back over toward Sherlock, crouching beside the chair.

“And?” He asks.

Sherlock shifts his head down and turns to John. “And you were very handsome.”

John just smiles. “Thank you for the dance, by the way.” Sherlock cocks his head. “You are quite good.”

“You’re welcome, John.”

Sherlock sits up slightly then hands his mug of tea to John. He turns back around so he’s sitting properly in the chair. John places the tea on the floor and tips himself forward so his hands rest on Sherlock’s knees.

“We’ll have to have a proper dance some time,” Sherlock continues, interlacing his hands.

“One without suspects to bump into?” John asks.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“And no pick pocketing?”

Sherlock smiles. “Perhaps.”

John moves onto his toes so he rises up closer to Sherlock, hands anchored on Sherlock’s thighs. “I’d like that.”

“Well,” Sherlock leans forward, “it’s a plan then.”

“Perfect.”

Sherlock covers John’s hands with his and John leans up, closes the distance. Lips together again and it’s sweet, and surprising, and right back where they were before in their flat together, just the same, only brand new.


End file.
